Book Four and Seven Fourths: Marie Suzette
by Scherzando
Summary: Fear the Sue. Blame the LMFFI. Pity the Author.
1. Cherie de La Fayette

Disclaimer: Hugo's characters, not mine. I'm just playing with them, and I promise to put them back when I'm done.

Author's Note: Blame the Marie-Suzette generator on Les Miserables Fan Fiction Index. It's all their fault, I tell you!

**Book Four and Seven-Fourths: **

**Marie-Suzette**

Cherie de La Fayette sauntered into the café, seemingly oblivious to the heated glances thrown her way. Her friend, Eponine, had promised to meet her there at half-past ten so that they could catch up on old times. Seeing as there didn't seem to be anywhere to sit in the main part of the café, she walked over towards a door leading (presumably) to another wing. As her dainty fingers grabbed hold of the dim, dirty doorknob, a hand shot out and grasped her wrist.

"What do you think you're doing?" The voice hissed at her. She stared at the man who was restraining her.

"I am meeting my friend, Eponine, here, monsieur, and I would appreciate if you would let go of my arm." She leveled her icy eyes of devastating sapphire at him and bestowed a glare as cold on the moon on the limb that hindered her progress. When the stranger caught sight of her full, pouty lips and porcelain-white skin, unmarred by neither a scrape of ash or a smudge of grime, his grip loosened and his mouth fell open. She haughtily pressed the door open and swept by him, her waves of copper hair cascading down her shoulders.

Entering the dim room, she immediately noticed the overpowering odor of cheap liquor. It appeared to be coming mainly from one man, who was trying his hardest to pass out before noon. Her perfect brown furrowed in concern even _she_, who had been raised by a band of gypsies that had taken care of her after her birth parents had left her alone by the side of the road, had better sense than to drink oneself into a stupor this early in the morning. The man was obviously attempting to dig himself an early grave. She strode over to him, not noticing that everyone else in the room had stopped to stare at her.

"Monsieur? Monsieur!" She shook him to get his attention. He slowly regained some measure of coherency, and looked at her with alcohol-glassed eyes. She gently took the bottle from between his fingertips.

"You shouldn't drink like this. Doing something so harmful to yourself only harms those around you," she explained in her gentlest voice. The man stared at her like she were a madwoman, before slowly nodding his head in agreement. He sat up straighter, looking at those around him, seemingly recognizing them for the first time. A hush fell over the room as he stared at the bottle the young mademoiselle held.

"You're absolutely right," he stated, staring at her with wide eyes. He slowly got up off the floor, and brushed himself off. "Why am I doing this? I solemnly swear, from now on I will drink no more."

Cherie beamed at him, showing off all of her perfect teeth, as he went to hug a stunned, young, blonde man. The room exploded into a myriad of cheers, whistles, and cat-calls. The blonde, who was now being held in a tight embrace and looked like he could use some air, looked over at Cherie with something mirroring awe. She straightened her back, and remembering her reason for being at this café in the first place, sat down at a small, unoccupied table. A young man ('_with a horrible sense of style_' she murmured to herself, before realizing the unkindness of her thought) walked over to her, carrying a bottle of fine wine.

"I'm very impressed, mademoiselle. We've all been trying to get him to quit drinking for years, but I guess it just took the right incentive." He handed her the bottle, and a delicate wine-glass, coloring with embarrassment. "I'm very thankful. This is for you." She smiled at him, and he blushed more.

"Would you like some?" she asked, reading the label on the bottle. "It's a very good year." He blushed again, and mumbled a Greek phrase under his breath, but sat down anyway. She blinked, before responding in the same tongue.

"You speak Greek, also?" he questioned, admiration and respect in his eyes.

"Yes, and I speak Italian, Latin, Hebrew, English, and Spanish, as well." She smiled at him, drinking his expression of astonishment.

"You are truly a gifted scholar," he told her. "I only know four, and that is for reading the four poets."

"When I was little," she explained, "My parents and I traveled all over the continent with a gypsy camp. Many of our group were from different parts of the world, and I picked up the languages rather quickly." She finished her glass of wine, before continuing, "My mother used to sing to me in Romani before she died, but sadly I cannot remember very much of it." Her oft-blushing partner patted her hand gently.

"I am sorry for your loss, mademoiselle," he told her earnestly, his face darkened with sorrow. She brushed away her few stray tears, before grasping his hand gently.

"Thank you."

Author's Note: Now, what's scary about this story- it wasn't actually that hard to write.

I suddenly feel dirty. Eeeugh.

Anyway, reviews or flames are accepted (can you tell I'm desperate for feedback?). Be kind.


	2. Belle Bonnaissance

Disclaimer: Everything was created by Victor Hugo, except the Mary-Sue, which was ganked from the Les Miserables Fan Fiction Index.

Author's Notes: I suppose an accurate representation of this story would consist of the fact that this very moment, I can hear canon crying out in pain at the horror I have unleashed upon it. Don't say I didn't warn you. Also, thank you to AmZ for pointing out inconsistencies in the story. If you have any constructive criticism to send me, please feel free to do so! I can always use the help!

**Part the Second**

Belle Bonnaissance crept along a dim, dank alleyway, her waves of glossy, ebony hair effectively transforming her into liquid shadow. Her startling obsidian eyes were dilated, their catlike slits widened to cover the entire iris, lending her the look of a crazed madwoman, or perhaps a passionate lover. Her calling was between the two situations; she was a dangerous – some may say crazed - assassin, the most capable in the business, and she held a passionate dedication towards her job.

Darkness surrounded her, concealing all but vague memories of her presence from her intended prey. A gun with a single bullet hung limp by her side, though her muscles were taut with the hunt. Slowing her breathing down to a pace equal to the inhalation of a dead man, she kept herself focused on her target, preparing to spring.

A touch of gold hair came into view, and she raised her gun instinctively, before quickly lowering it. Realizing her mistake in moving, she saw that her hasty actions had brought her into the sharp view of her intended victim. The young man quickly ducked behind a wall that was situated at a perfect angle to conceal his presence, while giving him a direct view to her. He pulled a small revolver from his jacket, preparing to defend himself.

Realizing her chance was lost, she wildly took aim and fired in the man's general direction. A shot rang out towards her no more than a millisecond behind her own. Feeling a bullet enter her arm, she groped for the wound and held it shut, before running blindly down the opposite street. Other men, roused by the shot (_friends of his, _she noted with some disdain), quickly moved to block her path. As her eyesight clouded, an indication of her blood loss, she managed to throw herself at the smallest of the lot. Hopefully, she would manage to take him down and continue her flight. However, as she started off to sprint down the nearest alley, three rough pairs of hands grabbed her and held her steady until her eventual blackout.

A cool cloth applied to her forehead managed to rouse Belle into a state of semi-consciousness. Her lips felt like rough parchment, and her throat seemed as though it were clogged with sand. Her eyes began to water with the bright light focused on them, and she slowly held them shut until she could regain her bearings. Opening them again, she made out a dim figure of a short man standing over her, his cane and suit indicating him to be a medical practitioner. Releasing a small moan she didn't know she was holding, the ministrations to her bruised face stopped, and her attendee looked at her.

"Enjolras?" He called, straining his neck toward the hallway. "Enjolras!" The blond man – her intended target – appeared from another room. He stared curiously at the girl, his Apollo-like features twisted into an expression between disdain ? Belle shifted her vision away from the extraordinarily handsome man, instead looking at the blood-soaked bandage that covered her wound. A small, metal bowl next to her contained a single, bloody bullet, its tip crushed where it had struck bone.

"Mademoiselle?" The blond (Enjolras?) asked her, supporting her head as he held a cool canteen to her parched lips. She had expected he would be furiously angry, as she had attempted to kill him, but he appeared to be so won over by her ethereal beauty that any denunciations had been swiftly silenced. His gaze caught hers, and she suddenly felt very tired and vulnerable. Enjolras' features softened, carefully supporting his delicate angel until her faintness had passed. The medical man stood cautiously at the door, a handkerchief pressed tightly to his face. Upon seeing the beautiful scene before him, his eyes immediately began to water, and he swiftly left the two alone as he went to make sure he wasn't catching pneumonia.

"I...I am sorry." Belle began as soon as she felt able to talk. "I never wanted to kill you, monsieur. My family...my family is starving, and I was offered a grand reward if I managed to dispose of you, the Leader of the People." Enjolras smiled at his darling's comforting words. "Please forgive me."

"There is no need for forgiveness. Actually, it is _I_ who must ask for your forgiveness. I believe this wound..." he tapped her bandage lightly and kissed her forearm, "is my doing, and I am sincerely sorry that I ever hurt you." His face was a hair's breadth from hers, and their noses were barely touching. He suddenly leaned forward, and they were kissing, soft lips pressed together in noiseless ecstasy.

A month later, Belle climbed over the top of the barricade beside her darling Enjolras, clutching her musket to her side like one might a child. Carefully taking aim, she picked off three soldiers who were chatting along the wall of a nearby café. However, as she did so, a bullet sang through the air, lodging itself in Belle's gorgeous bosom. She gasped, her world fading to black before her very eyes. Bloodshot eyes turned upwards, she saw Enjolras standing above her, his tears wetting her face and hair as he poured out his sorrow. Her blood stained his hand as he supported her, attempting to drag her back over the barricade.

"No..." She gasped, holding tightly to his vest. "Leave me here." He silently obeyed, knowing that it would not be long now. Her eyes filled, and she shortly croaked out a snippet of a tune.

"_Don't you fret, Monsieur Enjolras, I'm not in any pain. A little fall of rain can hardly hurt me now!_" She gasped, another jolt of pain searing though her body. Enjolras sobbed, holding onto her like a lifeline.

"Don't leave me now, Belle. You mustn't leave me alone, precious darling. Stay with me." He begged, watching as life flickered from her eyes and she finally lay still. Some background character came behind Enjolras, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. Furiously wiping the tears from his eyes, the Golden Apollo picked up a musket angrily. _I WILL avenge her death!_ He swore, climbing atop an old rocking chair and taking aim. Below him, little Grantaire stood over the body of Belle Bonnaissance.

"What a twat." He commented, taking the musket from her hand, before kicking the body over to retrieve his piece of chalk she had fallen upon.


End file.
